


Once Upon A Time in Hollywood

by ArmageddonGeneration



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Acting, Activism, Actress Judy, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Golden Age Hollywood, Interspecies Relationship(s), Jack is just kind of stuck in the middle, Slow Burn, Studio Fixer Nick, The studio is kinda run like a mafia idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-15 21:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmageddonGeneration/pseuds/ArmageddonGeneration
Summary: Judy Hopps is an aspiring young actress stuck playing the country girl in B-rate Westerns.Nick Wilde is the embittered, shady Studio Fixer sent by the Hollywood gods to set her up with her co-star, up-and-coming heart throb Jack Savage.Things don't really go to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

The sunset is fake and so is she.

“You can’t just leave,” she whimpers. (Nice lip quiver).

“I have to, Doll,” says the guy, brushing a tear from her cheek, (real, impressive) “Chief needs me, see?”

“I need you!” her fists bunch in her dress, pulling what little production value she can from the standard issue Farmer’s Daughter look. Her eyes are wide, sparkling.

“If I don’t go, there won’t be any you to come back to,” (Christ, who wrote this?), “remember sweetheart, the law –“

“ - The law comes before everything else,” for a second her mask drops. Her mouth twists, a behind-the-eyes flicker. But then she sniffs and smiles all watery and sweet, and kisses him softer this time, just like she was asked.

Her love interest (no, it’s the other way around, no matter how she’s playing it) detaches himself, sets his white wide-brim on his head and climbs up onto the waiting cart.

“Before _everyone_ else, Doll,” he smiles, going for tragic and coming up goofy, “even me.”

She watches as he’s pulled away towards the bonfire sky.

“CUT!”

Bells ring shrilly. Around the rabbits the between-take chatter grounds to life like a high-mileage engine. The lights switch on and their horizon shrinks, paper-thin and color-drained. His assignment slumps a little; an unconscious tug at the collar of her dress, a polite nod to the guy she was just weeping over, then she turns and goes.

Nick pushes off the back wall where he’s been watching and strolls over to tap the director (Mansfield, married but shaky, three kids holding back a divorce. Likes pool, cheap bars and letting his paws wander) on the shoulder.

Mansfield scowls at him (through him, at the version of him they swap stories about over the water cooler) but Nick smirks it off.

“You here for her?” the capybara snaps.

“You know me so well.”

The scowl deepens. He jabs a thumb around the back of the set.

“She’ll be in her dressing room. Good luck, pal.”

(Read: No chance, fox.)

Nick passes her co-star as he crosses the set, the male rabbit with white fur and black zebra stripes. Guy’s built his career off that fur, going by the heart eyes the camera crew are giving him (Joey, second assistant director, is definitely batting for the other team. Nick makes a note.)

Jack Savage hasn’t taken his stupid cowboy hat off. Wouldn’t surprise Nick if he'd brought it in from home. Nothing about him has changed, walking off set. Not his eyes or his hat or his too-polite to-be-charming smile. Less of an actor than a posable action-figure.

Nick arrives at her dressing room door, smooths out the suit and raises his paw to –

“Come in.”

His paw stills a millimetre from the door. Okay. He turns the handle instead and steps into a draughty room with broom-cupboard walls, plastered over with a couple of 24 by 36 posters for classic Noir thrillers, all monochrome bloodstains and sultry stares through cigarette smoke.

Oh, shit. _The_ Poster. How does she have _The_ Poster? Why does she even have it, that was so long ago -

“Nicholas Wilde?” prompts the gray rabbit sitting at the dressing table. Nick snaps himself back to reality.

“My reputation precedes me.”

“Yes,” Judy Hopps treats him to an analytical over-the-shoulder stare straight out of the movies pasted to her walls, “it has.”

She’s young, for one already kicking up such a stink upstairs. Nick wonders how long she’s spent gossiping over the water-cooler. 

“You were expecting me?”

“Heard you coming,” Hopps taps her ear absently, turning away from him to adjust her next-take makeup in the mirror, “I noticed you watching the last few takes.”

“Tsk tsk,” his ears flicker, “don’t you need to be concentrating on your job?”

“Hardly. That scene wasn’t exactly the acting Olympics.”

“I skimmed the script,” Nick frowns, leaning against the wall, facing firmly away from The Poster, “Wasn’t that the emotional climax for your character?”

“Isn’t that the sad truth,” she turns away from the mirror and fixes him with a smirk of her own, but her chin is jutting, defiant, her paw tight around a fur brush. Nervous? “Why, you got any pro tips?”

Button pushing. She‘s got his ears going again. Does she know? She can’t, she’s barely been here two months.

“Try not to look like you’ve got a skunk’s butt under your nose every time Savage mentions the law?” Nick suggests, and watches said nose wriggle.

“You’re the studio fixer,” she diverts.

“Guilty.” Another wriggle.

“You here to play Cupid?”

He smiles, letting some teeth show.

“’Fraid so, _Doll_.”

She scowls.

“You’re going to want to refrain from calling me that.”

“Whatever you say, Fluff. Anyway, you already know the pitch. Studio wants you to hitch up with short bright and boring out there. Love at first sight, Hollywood’s next power couple, yada yada yada.”

“And what if I keep saying no?”

Nick’s smile disappears. That settles it, she can’t know about him, because then she’d know the answer.

“… I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She chews her lip.

“What if we made a deal?”

That brings the smirk back.

“A deal? What makes you think you have that kind of power?”

“I have power over whether you get your job done.”

Nick pauses, re-assesses this bunny so uncomfortable in her country dress. Beneath the soft makeup her eyes are surprisingly sharp. Bright without tears.

“That’s blackmail, Fluff,” he tuts. She winces like he hit her. Law, noir, guilt, crime. Not the usual triggers for a rabbit.

“It’s not. Just… motivated persuasion.”

Nick laughs.

“Now you sound like my boss.”

“Can’t you talk to them?” she asks, “You’re the studio fixer, you have… _methods_ ,” she forces the word out like she’s passing a brick, “you can get me in with them. I need… More.”

“More what?”

“More than my second bit part as a farmer’s daughter in as many months?” she sighs, head flopping back, ears draped over her dressing table. Nick has a fleeting desire to reach out and -

“I’m a _fixer_ , Darling. Not a miracle worker.”

She glares at him down that sugar pink nose.

“Just because you’ve found your calling as the Studio’s pimp doesn’t mean –”

His claws bite into his paw pads.

“Watch it, cottontail.”

She notices. She’s an actress, an annoyingly good one at that, but that kind of concealment takes time and punishment she hasn’t had yet. She smells of prey.

“I’m just so sick of acting out the exact same part I just got away from.”

“Exactly,” Nick insists, “rabbits are farmers. It’s realistic.”

“Movies aren’t meant to be realistic! They’re dreams we can share with other people, they’re what the world could be if we remade it the way we wanted –“

“For chrissakes, you’re a performer. Just give the people what they want.”

“They can only choose what they want from what the studio gives them!”

He stares at her again, this rabbit who isn’t dumb in the usual ‘ooh a turnip! Let’s all drop our pants and get frisky!’ kind of way, but the ‘I can’t shut my stupid (sharp, articulate, exact) mouth when I need to’ kind of way that is so much more dangerous.

Nick bends down to her level, eye to eye. She doesn’t flinch, though she wants to.

“What makes you think you’re so much better than the rest of us?”

Her eyes narrow and she leans so close her nose almost touches his and _Christ_ this is not what’s supposed to happen, you’re an actress, rabbit, why can’t you stick to the script?

“We’re all better,” she holds his gaze. He swears he can feel her breath on his lips, “We’re all so much bigger than the boxes they trap us in.”

Nick retreats, exhales as casually as possible, nervous snout-scratch to cover it up.

“You sure you’re not still reading from a script?”

She rolls her eyes.

“The point is I can do more. And –“

“Fine,” he cuts her off before she starts making any more sense, “if I give you a boost with Big and the others, will you let Jack Savage take you out on a date?”

Her teeth worry the inside of her cheek as she deliberates. The fur around her muzzle is lighter gray than the rest of her, and Nick finds himself trying to trace the line between the two shades, where the thunderclouds meet their silver lining. She sighs.

“I can’t believe I got away from my mother just to have a fox set me up instead,” she taps her cheek, “One date. I’ll see how it goes from there.”

“Very gracious of you, Doll. I’m sure Big will be honoured.”

She huffs good-naturedly.

“Thank you. For talking to him.”

“Haven’t done it yet.”

“Yeah, well it’s a long shot anyway, so… It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Your big break was a sappy rabbit sitcom, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“You didn’t say no.”

She smiles easily, teeth showing. It’s funny how she can make something foxes know as ‘ _go away get away I’m hurting I’ll hurt you’_ so… Sweet? Cloying, Nick decides.

“Good afternoon, Mister Wilde.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Hopps.”

She looks him over again, that method-actor stare they use to pull you apart like clockwork and see what makes you tick. But this time it isn’t cold or analytical. Judy Hopps is warm and appraising and there’s a trace of a smirk in her eyes even though her mouth hasn’t moved.

Nick leaves quick; avoid looking at The Poster on your way out, keep your ears up and your hackles down.

He passes Jack Savage again on the way out, still chatting to the crew, propping himself up against those brushstroke clouds. And that would be it, Nick realised. This was Hopps’ horizon now, too. Dead end.

In his head, he sees the happy couple posing for photos on the red carpet for another movie just like this one; just cheap enough and wide-appeal enough and corny enough to write off ol’ Jack’s woodenness as an artistic choice.

The Judy Hopps on Jack Savage’s arm is a mannequin, incapable of arguing or articulating or looking at you with the hint of a smirk in her eyes.

Nick shakes it off. Manny the capybara treats him to a parting glare as he leaves. At least now there might be one mammal on this set who doesn’t believe the water-cooler talk, though that isn’t necessarily a good thing.

It doesn’t matter. He got the job done, finally. Of course, has no intention of speaking to Big about her, but that’s just life. Kid was already expecting to be ignored anyway, and who was Nick to prove her wrong?

Besides, the further away he can keep her the better.

He’s gone before she gets back on set.

***

A week later he’s told to keep a closer eye on Judy Hopps.

“You know how it is with the younger ones,” Head of Security Koslov pats him on the back so hard his teeth rattle, “best to break her in a little. And no-one knows the system like you, Nicky.”

Nick smiles his _You bastard!_ smile, and not for the first time (or the last, he’s sure) resists the urge to punch the polar bear’s teeth in.

It’s just a part, he tells himself, we’re all just playing parts. Just don’t break character.

This will go really, really well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao3 Deleted the chapter for some weird reason - sorry!  
> Thanks so much for all the positive feedback!

Foxes have been chasing Judy all her life.

The one standing opposite her now is not Nick Wilde; he is heavier built, and his fur is sandier than Wilde’s deeper, richer red. Yellow eyes flash under the brim of a black hat.

“ACTION!”

The fox snarls, all animal and teeth. Jack Savage pushes himself in front of Judy, paw on her wrist, arms spread out to protect her.

“Back, you mangy mutt! The Chief’ll be here any second, you’ll see!”

(Come on, Jack, you can do better than that).

“No-one ain’t doin’ nuthin’ bucktooth,” the fox is drooling this time, which Judy thinks is a little excessive on top of the growling and the extended claws and the mange makeup he’s clearly resisting the urge to scratch.

Jack narrows his eyes.

“Chief’s got your boss’s number, pal. With any luck he’s already rotting in a cell.”

The fox cackles and spits into the dirt.

“Tha’s jus’ wha he wanted ye t’ thank. We got yer precious leader strung up on th’ tracks waitin’ for the 11:03 train.”

“No!” Judy wails. It’s her only line for the next four scenes; she might as well milk it. Jack draws her close and draws himself up (better, Jack, just like we practiced).

“You’ll never get away with this!”

She looks up at him for a second, haloed in the studio lights. She tries to imagine doing this again, the damsel thing, minus the cameras and audience. How would he look without the backlighting to cast him heroic?

The fox snarls and pounces. Jack throws her down like they’ve rehearsed and jumps to meet him. They fall to the floor, scuffle, moving through the choreography like clockwork figures, click, click, click.

(Brace yourself, Judy. It’s okay, you can do this, remember the line this time, breathe -)

Jack is tossed away like a ragdoll. Those sulphurous lamplight eyes find her. The fox’s snarl rips through Judy’s guts.

(- breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe -)

He’s on her. Claws and open maw. Hot, predatory musk, and Gideon Grey slashes her face open like paper -

(line, remember the line -)

“You’ll – you’ll never take me alive!”

The monster from under her bed leers. A claw traces her cheek, right over the scars Gideon made.

“That can be arranged, Doll.”

“And _cut!”_

The fox relaxes, growl shut off, claws retracted. He picks himself up and gazes down at her, still panting in the dirt. She meets his eyes for a second and they flicker down to his feet – shy? Scared? He pads away in silence.

Another difference from Nick Wilde. Though – she thinks back to the smirk, the casual body posture, the eyes that gave nothing away, how his words danced around her without really saying anything – maybe not. They just chose different kinds of silence.

Jack is here now, and she lets him help her up, tries to get used to the weight of his paw in hers. Does he know about the Studio? She searches for it in his eyes, but they’re just the usual clear, empty blue, like the sky at the height of summer back home.

“Nice work, kids, nice work!” Mr. Mansfield slaps Jack on the back, “particularly from you, Hopps, I really felt that fear.”

Judy offers him the Cute Starlet Smile she’s been perfecting in the mirror.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And you remembered the line that time!” forced laughter, “Fourth time’s the charm, eh?”

Judy’s smile falters.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we got there in the end, that’s all that matters.”

Mansfield peers at her, eyes flicking down to the spot where the two foxes were just at her throat. The actor has already packed up his things and left to get his makeup removed, but his musk still lingers.

Jack coughs.

“Mr Mansfield, sir, if you wouldn’t mind me an’ Judy having a talk?”

“Oh no, of course! You kids have fun now, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Mansfield leaves and Judy watches him go, heart climbing into her mouth as she realises exactly what he meant by ‘fun’.

Oh god this is it, calm down don’t straighten your ears, why is this scarier than the fox?

“So,” Jack’s foot twists in the dirt, “Miss Judy –”

 “Judy Hopps?” calls a voice, “mail delivery for Judy Hopps!”

Judy remembers how to breathe.

“Over here!” (try not to make the arm wave too frantic. Ignore the disappointment in his eyes, he’ll get another chance. Don’t think about that other chance, because it makes the bottom drop out of your stomach, and-)

A runner scampers over, a young squirrel in a checked shirt too smart for his job.

“Letter from Bunnyburrow, ma’am.”

“Thank you. It’s Squire, right?”

“Yes. Ma’am. And, yes, my parents got a good laugh out of signing my birth certificate.”

“My second name is Hopps. No judgements here. You new?”

“Yes ma’am, just started last month. No-one else has actually remembered my name yet, so…”

“Well, us newbies have got to stick together, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Judy, please.”

Squire the squirrel grins. Jack coughs again. Squire flinches.

“Right, uh, I should be going. Nice talking, Judy.”

He jogs away as Judy opens the envelope, addressed in her mother’s hand, so she can put off having to play Juliet for another few seconds.

“So, uh, Judy. I was just wonderin’ if you’d like to, maybe sometime –”

“What the _cheese?”_

Jack blinks at her.

“Excuse me?”

“I –” Judy stares up at him with vacant eyes. Her paws are shaking, “I need to go find Nick Wilde.”

“W – the fixer?”

“Yes,” Judy sprints back round to her dressing room, Jack following, “you know where he is?”

“Security I’d guess, but – Judy, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you being around that guy,” he catches her wrist, leans far too close for Judy’s liking, stage-whispers, “rumour has it he’s a spy for another studio. Collecting all _our_ secrets,” he gives her a significant look, “so he can sell them for a buck. Retire to some private island.”

Judy snorts.

“He’s not a supervillain, Jack. I’ll be fine,” she shoves her door open, grabs her coat, and closes it again, already dashing for the stage door –

Stops herself. Sticks her head back around the doorframe.

“Sorry. About interrupting you. It’s just, uh, bit of a crisis,” she hopes she doesn’t look too crazy, “have a good night! Doing… stuff.”

(She’d quite like to cringe out of existence now).

Jack smiles warmly.

“Of course.”

Judy tries for a smile in return, then she’s gone, wrestling her arms into her coat.

(He’s nice, she has to admit. The kind of buck Mom would coo over if she brought him home.)

(Oh, cheese, _Mom…_ )

She races across the backlot, past vistas of painted mountains and the plywood shell of a cruise liner, head down and ears flapping in the chill evening wind. Security is over in the far left corner, a nondescript box with a heavy metal door she has put her shoulder against and shove.

It’s still cold inside, but at least she’s out of the wind.

The cold is because of the polar bear sitting behind the main desk.

“Miss Hopps?” Mr. Koslov’s accent is thicker than a winter muffler. Judy shivers. She’s heard horror stories about his bloody defection from the Soviets to rival the campfire whispers back home. The fact he’s the approximate size and shape of the iceberg that sunk the _Titanic_ doesn’t help either, “How can we help you this evening?”

“Um,” Judy forces herself to step forward and smile, “I have a question for Nicholas Wilde? I was told to contact him with any queries about studio life.”

On the wall behind Koslov’s desk is something that reminds Judy of a detective’s investigation board, studded with dozens of photos and newspaper clippings about Studio employees. She spots her own photo, bound to Jack Savage’s by a thin red thread. The drawing pin is embedded right between her eyes.

“Indeed,” Koslov’s chuckle is like an avalanche looking for someone to crush, “I’m afraid we sent Nicholas to Stage Seven to check up on another client. Try starting there.”

“Thank you, sir,” Judy turns and struggles to heave the door open. There’s the sound of a chair being pushed back; Mr. Koslov crosses the room in two strides and pulls the door open as easily as if it were made of paper. Judy mutters more thanks and ducks back out into the wind. The door slams shut behind her, but she swears she can still feel those ice-chip eyes boring into the back of her head.

If Nick Wilde is the Studio’s scalpel, Koslov is their hammer. She sucks in a breath and picks up the pace.

***

“Sorry, sister, I got no clue where the fox went,” drawls the vole.

Stage Seven is shooting some kind of monster movie; behind them rodent extras scream as a towering grizzly bear wades through their paper mâché city.

“You must know where he was going when he left,” Judy sighs, wincing as a skyscraper crashes across the set.

The vole, a young female with fur like chocolate silk, sighs as her fingers do an agitated dance across her chair.

“I dunno, he did – have you got a smoke?”

“Sorry?”

“A smoke. I’m dying over here.”

Judy’s snout wrinkles and the vole sighs.

“The fox is usually the one to fix me up with booze and all that – don’t give me that look, Missy. How old are you, twenty, twenty-two? You’ll get there eventually.”

The voile can’t be more than twenty-seven herself, but Judy plays Good Cop and keeps up the Cute Starlet Smile. The bear roars and demolishes a suburban dreamland with a swipe of his paw.

“So, he came down here because he’s getting you on AA?”

Her laughter is high, trilling.

“Why would the Studio waste time forcing me through rehab when I could be making them money?” she gestures at her costume, a ballgown elegantly torn to expose _just enough_ of her pristine fur, “Gotta grab it while it lasts, right? The fox just does the legwork for me, makes sure I don’t get caught doing anything that’d get the higher-ups in trouble.”

For a second Judy is speechless.

“So, he _facilitates_ your addiction?”

“He did,” she sighs and taps her stomach conspiratorially, “until this thing came along.”

Judy blinks.

“You’re pr– oh, congratulations!”

The vole snorts.

“Yeah, congratulations. Studios’ biggest Small leading lady gets banged up out of wedlock. Headlines practically write themselves. And suddenly, no booze, no smokes. _It’d harm the baby,_ they say, and I can’t get rid of it because that doesn’t fit my character.”

Judy frowns.

“Your character? Is she pregnant in the movie or something?”

“No, not _that_ character. Jesus, you really are a rabbit, aren’t you?” Judy suppresses a scowl, “I mean the character you put on for _them_ ,” she waves vaguely at the space beyond them, outside the studio walls and into the night, “the character you play on the red carpet, at the press junkets, the one you let the public think is their best friend. _That’s_ why the Fox was visiting. Trying to get me hitched before I pop,” she peers at Judy’s stomach interestedly, “same for you, I guess.”

Judy chokes on her own spit.

“Wha – no, of course not!”

The vole raises a placating hand. Back on set the National Guard is being thoroughly stomped by Bearzilla.

“Sorry, just, a young, attractive rabbit like you,” (it’s like she underlines the word in red marker) “Figure you’re bound to get around to it eventually.”

“I don’t wa-“ Judy stops cold. She feels Koslov’s drawing pin between her eyes, sees Jack Savage’s face, and wonders. How long will she be expected to keep this up?

Behind them Bearzilla puts his foot through City Hall.

“Anyways, I have to be back on in a minute,” the vole’s fingers haven’t stopped dancing, but her gaze is steady when she meets Judy’s eyes. Judy knows that look. It’s the same one Nick Wilde brushed off so easily in her dressing room, “I have to be in his paw for close-ups, then I’ve got to have a ‘romantic climax’ with a _bear_. Apparently audiences these days are into that kinky pred-taming shit.”

Judy tries to smile sympathetically.

“So, you remember where he went?”

“Nope,” she yawns, “Fox could be anywhere.”

“He has a name,” Judy snaps.

“Huh?”

“Nick Wilde. You might want to use it.”

The vole’s fingers pause their dance.

“Listen, bunny, here’s some real advice for you. Be careful around that pred. We have to expose a lot of shit to him, and it’s dangerous. You know that’s the whole reason he got his job, right? I heard he and his little pal have got some dirt on the Studio and he blackmailed them into hiring them. Only way they’d let a fox be their eyes and ears down here.”

Judy files this away in the same box as a thousand other rumours about Nick Wilde.

“Why are you telling me all this? Isn’t it meant to be secret?”

“What would be the point?” she fixes her with eyes the color of coffee drops, “besides, you’re one of us now, right? Think of it as a special preview. Welcome to the family.”

Behind them the bell rings and the director calls for Rita back on set. Judy stays frozen long enough to hear her start screaming before she snaps herself out of it and makes her escape, skirting around the camera crew as Rita is swept away by the monster only she can tame.

The city lies in ruins.

Outside, the wind bites worse than ever, snatching the plumes of Judy’s breath away as soon as they appear.

(OK, think. If you were a smug conman with the moral consistency of swamp slime where would you go?)

She wracks her brains for all those police manuals she read as a kit, the PIs she spent her childhood watching bust criminals over and over on the old TV that always went staticky in the corners, until Mom complained she was going to wear the old set out so why didn’t she come help out in the kitchen instead? It was about time she learned.

Judy flips through her box of hearsay about Wilde. Polite, charming, guarded. Friendly, distrusting, solitary –

What did the vole say? _He and his little friend_. OK, narrow it down. Small mammal, obviously. A pred almost definitely, but foxes don’t even trust other preds generally, except maybe their own kind.

It comes to her in a thrill, a call sheet she’d glanced over weeks ago - some schlocky sci-fi she’d turned down because she didn’t fancy being groped by aliens. Right at the bottom, a fennec fox in a minor role.

They should be shooting in Studio Ten, over that way. Judy starts running, to get away from the wind or something else she isn’t sure.

Ten is a cramped broom closet of a soundstage tucked away in the far corner of the studio complex. People called it the dumping ground, where they shot all the low-budget low-profit B movies. Inside the cameras the crew lug about are near-fossilised. One of the spotlights flickers worryingly.

Her guy is smoking sulkily in the corner when she arrives, tugging at some kind of tacky space-suit several sizes too big for him.

“Finnick?”

He’s small even by fennec standards, but he makes up for it with scowl fit for Bearzilla back in Studio Seven.

“What’choo want, Toots?”

“Nick Wilde. Know where he is?”

His centre of gravity’s low, ready to pounce. Something’s taken a chunk out of one of his ears.

“You’re his rabbit,” he grunts, taking a drag on the cigarette.

“Excuse me?”

“Nicky was complainin’ ‘bout you to me just yesterday.”

“Of course he was,” she sighs.

“You ain’t got no right to be pissy at him,” Finnick’s voice is a so low it’s almost subterranean, “he deserves to be left the fuck alone.”

He blows smoke at her and her eyes smart (don’t back down, display strength. Confidence).

“Well I can’t, and I need to see him,” Judy folds her arms defensively, “What’s the studio got him covering up for you?”

Finnick laughs.

“As if the studio would give a shit about a glorified extra like me. Nah, Nicky was checkin’ up on me in his own time.”

Her arms… loosen a little.

“Why?”

“Got in a barfight ‘bout a week back,” Finnick indicates his slashed ear, “Nicky saved my tail from the Fuzz. Said I shouldn’t be throwin’ away my career. Not that it’s much of a career,” he scowls over at the set, where his heroic ram captain is fighting off a hoard of reptiles masquerading as aliens, “bit part as crew-expendable.

“Tell me about it.”

“Fuck off with that condescension,” Finnick snarls, but Judy has already faced down a polar bear and Gideon Grey today and she has no time for fear. He seems to be getting frustrated, “Nicky was always pulling that righteous shit,” he waves his cigarette, a smoky underline in the air, “it’s how he got stuck managing this shit-show. Tried to pull a Robin Hood and expose the Studio’s illegal bullshit, steal their secrets and give ‘em to the law. He got caught and he’s been working off the debt ever since. That’s how stupid he is,” Finnick jabs the burning end of the cigarette at her, “so don’t you go dragging him back.”

“Trust me, the less time we spend together the happier we’ll both be. Just make this easier for us, will you?”

Finnick harrumphs.

“There’s this old hole-in-the-wall we used to hang in way back. Nicky never really grew out of the place. The Zoo. Heard of it?”

“Unfortunately,” Judy grimaces, “thanks.”

She leaves him there in his garish space suit, a sad clown who knows he’s the butt of the joke.

***

Isn’t it funny how even the buildings around the Studio look like movie sets? The Zoo is one of several bars within walking distance and is by far the seediest and shadiest of the lot. Judy walks through the door already imagining gangsters trading threats at the bar, bikers fighting over the jukebox and a pool-shark dominating the old table in the corner. In reality the pool table is old and lumpy, the jukebox is dark and the only one slumped over the bar is a lonely fox looking much older than the last time she saw him.

She looks down at the criminal, the hero, the urban legend Nicholas Wilde. Without all that snark to prop him up he sags like there’s a mountain on his shoulders.

“Mr Wilde.”

He blinks blearily up at her. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, like he’s been crying.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he slurs slightly, “Wait - how the hell did you find me?”

“I just followed your trail.”

 “But I covered my trail. No-one ever finds me here.”

“Well…” she thinks back on it, uncovering the clues, piecing it together. Probably the closest to a real cop she’s ever going to get, “I uncovered it.”

“Huh,” he stares almost too long. There’s some gold, flecked in with the green of his eyes. Just like the fox on set. He shakes himself, “You thirsty?”

“A little.”

“Great, so am I. You’re paying, Little Miss Movie-star.”

Judy huffs and signals to the bartender, an old moose compulsively cleaning glasses with a rag.

“The usual please. And his.”

Nick raises an eyebrow.

“You been in here before?”

“Occasionally. I like to soak in the atmosphere.”

“ _Atmosphere_ , right, that’s what we’re calling it. Never knew a fail from the Health Department could be a selling point.”

“Watch it Wilde,” the bartender grunts, sliding their drinks across, “I’ll have you know I passed my last health inspection. And someone who spends so much tile in here all on his lonesome don’t get to complain.”

“You passed by the skin of your teeth,” Nick retorts. His fur is unkempt and his top button undone. He looks like he’s been sleeping rough, “Anyway, Miss Hopps, what brings you…”

His jaw goes slack. Judy takes a sip of her drink.

“What?”

“Is that a… carrot martini?”

“… Maybe.”

Nick bursts out laughing.

“You know you’re a walking stereotype, right?”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk,” she retorts.

“Fair enough. So, Carrots,” (she whacks him on the arm and he winces) “what can I do for you this evening?”

“Well, y’see,” Judy runs a nervous finger around the rim of her martini glass, “I just got a letter from my parents. They’re coming up to visit me next week.”

“My sympathies,” Nick sniffs, taking a practiced swig of his whiskey, “what has that got to do with me?”

“Well, I, uh – I might’ve exaggerated how big of a star I am here, and –“

Nick grins delightedly.

“You _lied_. Mightier-than-thou Judy Hopps lied.”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Judy protests, “More of a prediction, that’s all. I will make it.”

Nick sighs.

“Still failing to see why this should bother me.”

“Jack Savage is planning on asking me out tonight.”

(Ignore the tightness in your stomach. Make the best of it.)

“I didn’t ask for regular updates on the soap opera, Carrots. And you can’t hold that over me forever.”

“I know. I’m just reminding you that I plan to keep my end of the deal, so you could think about helping me out, since you haven’t kept yours.”

Nick stills, a felon caught in police cruiser headlights.

“You’re basing that assumption on what?”

“Call it a stab in the dark.”

“Tsk tsk, Carrots. Didn’t Mommy ever tell you not to stereotype? Oh wait,” he takes another gulp of his whiskey. 

“You’re not saying no.”

“Touché. If I help you, will you promise to behave like a good lil’ bunny and leave me alone?”

“That depends on what you’re going to do.”

“Either you want my help, or you don’t.”

“I do want help. You just happen to be the only person I can ask.”

“Do you not trust me, Carrots?”

“… I don’t trust your methods,” she says carefully, because she honestly doesn’t know what to make of this new Nick Wilde with his ruffled fur and raw eyes and the weight of the world pressing him into the dirt, “you enable addicts.”

“The carrot’s always more effective the stick, right? You of all people should know that,” he smirks but it does nothing to shift the mountain on his shoulders, “then again,” he drains his glass like a mammal dying of thirst, “shouldn’t really have expected any more, should I?”

“Why’d you say that?” Judy snaps.

“Young, country background, got your start in soap opera. Bet the only time you ever saw a pred was when they were playing the villain on set,” he sneers.

“No. Not just on set,” Judy says quietly.

“Well, hardly matters going by the smell. Must say, you never struck me as the type to shack up with a fox, Carrots,” he taps his nose knowingly, the smirk still refusing to reach his eyes, “You sure proved me wrong.”

Judy chokes on her drink. She'd assumed the fox musk was just in her head, another after-image of Gideon 

“Wha- that is not – how dare you!”

She whirls around, half expecting him to still be there, still stalking. Nick sighs.

“… or else not so wrong. Tut tut, that is disappointing.”

“And why exactly does that disappoint you, Nicholas?” she snaps.

Nick freezes. Judy’s brain hits the emergency brake.

“I need more alcohol for this,” Nick mutters, and moves to signal the bartender, but Judy catches his wrist.

“No,” she says firmly (hold the contact, ignore his body heat seeping into your fingers, the texture of his fur, the thrum of his heart under the skin), “help me do this, then I’ll be out of your fur.”

He extricates himself carefully.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

***

It’s almost three in the morning by the time they’re done. Judy caved to Nick’s demands for drink at about two, and now they’re both giggling in a warm haze of whiskey fumes.

“I can’t believe you think Carrot martinis are _classy_ ,” Nick sniggers.

“Yeah, well,” she catches her breath, “Country living will do that to you.”

“Thank God you escaped when you did.”

That sobers her up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so,” she notices the clock and jumps, “crackers, I’ve got to go.”

“It’s okay, Carrots,” Nick assures her with pleading paws, “you’re allowed to swear. You’re a grown-up now. I won’t tell.”

“Old habits die hard,” she pauses, coat finally on after a few false starts with the buttons, looks down at those earnest green-gold eyes and thinks _my God, this guy can act_.

Option one, this is a façade, and he’s doing a damn good job of playing her. Option two, this slightly tipsy fox with the lopsided smile is the real Nick Wilde. She doesn’t know which is scarier. “Thanks for this, Nick.”

He leans back, trying to play it cool, but she can see the embarrassment behind his mask this time, “Yeah well, sometimes even the pure and saintly have to stoop and get their paws dirty.”

“And sometimes they have to admit they’re wrong,” she touches his paw, just barely this time, brushing the soft fur of his knuckle, “Honestly, thank you.”

He draws the paw back.

“Yeah, whatever. Y’know, maybe you’re really not as talented as you think. You bunnies just seem to come by this melodrama stuff naturally, huh?”

“Whereas you foxes specialise in being jackasses?”

He clutches his heart, the overdramatic six-year-old.

“S _martass_ fox, Miss Hopps, not a jackass one. I'll have you know they're completely different.”

“Uh-huh. Oh and Nick, do me a favour?”

“Just one more?”

“Don’t drink alone. No-one deserves to make themselves that sad.”

The expression that washes over him is difficult to name, but his brow smooths over and his eyes _sparkle_ , and his mouth does this funny little quirking thing that Judy decides she’d quite like to see more of in future. He’d be so embarrassed if he could see himself in the mirror.

“You realise you’re not actually my boss, right?” he says.

She smiles, relaxed and easy.

“We’ll see.”

***

The next morning Jack Savage is waiting for her on set with a bouquet of flowers and the usual cornball smile. Judy fixes on her own Cute Starlet Smile, marches up to him and tries not to think of it as an ambush.

All part of the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was much longer and quite talk-y. The film being shot in Studio Seven is a King-Kong ripoff because of the racial coding in those kinds of monster movie.  
> Constructive criticism is much welcomed and comments are treasured beyond all else.  
> Thanks a ton for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a ton for reading! I've had this idea bouncing around inside my head for ages. Was it any good? Worth continuing?  
> Comments are worth their weight in gold and I'd love to hear feedback


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